


Don't Stop Me Now

by Chokopoppo



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M, an attempt was made
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6093802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two old men try to sort out the problems of their youth - the crippling fear of intimacy facing off against the desire to be validated. It's hard, being a kid and growing up. It's hard, and nobody understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Stop Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this fic back in September. Then the Rick And Morty season finale happened, and I kind of gave up on it for a while. Now it's back. This is what it's all about, baby.

“Aw, geez, Rick, w-where are we?”

“We’re in another universe, Morty, I thought that was obvious,” Rick says, and burps. “Now you, y-you gotta be careful, Morty, cause this universe, this u-uuur-niverse is PG, Morty,” he adds, swinging his hand vaguely, “which means we, we, we can’t swear, M-Morty, we can’t - urp - can’t do any, any sex stuff, Morty.”

“Aw, geez, Rick - “

“And - and - cause if you - urp - do, Morty, we’ll be wiped from existence! We can’t exist in this universe, you know, if parents would get upset - little kids are watching us right now, Morty, we gotta be good role models, you know, for the kiddies, Morty.”

“Why are we here, Rick?” Morty is still not very good at this, and when pressed, begins to grow irritable. “I mean, did - did you need something, or, or what, huh? Why are we here?”

“Morty, Morty, you gotta listen to - urp - to me, gotta l-urr-isten to grandpa.” Rick’s hand, once free-flying, comes to settle down on Morty’s shoulder. “What grandpa’s doing is none of your f- none of your business. You got that? I’m just here to pick up something I left here a few years ago.”

“How many years ago?”

“How old is your mom?” Rick picks up the pace, stepping quickly along the concrete. Morty stumbles to keep up. “That wasn’t a clever zinger, by the way, I’m asking sincerely. She’s like, she’s - urp - what, thirty something? Just take her age and add five years, and th-urr-t’s how long ago it was.”

“Wait, wait - are - are we going to meet grandma? W-why did we come all the way to this universe just to - “

“Morty, Christ, would you use your brain for like two seconds? It’s not grandma, M-urr-Morty. I said _five_ years before your m-urr-om was born.” He retrieves a characteristically complicated device, covered in lights and dials and things that ‘beep’ for no reason other than to sound impressive. Morty is fairly certain half of the thing is just for show - Rick could probably make the same device out of paperclips, a magnet, and various debris from Bird-Person’s carpet. “Also, I’m gonna use this device to track it down, but that might take a - urp - a really long time, I don’t know, Morty, I’m just assuming at a time frame here, so why don’t you, you know, go see the sights and - urp - meet new people, Morty.”

“Geez, I don’t know, Rick, I, I think maybe I better stick with you, you know? On account of, um, how I’m like your personal cloaking device, remember?” He stares hopefully up at his grandfather’s passive face. “Remember how, how we cemented that as my purpose? A little - a few episodes ago? Remember that? And I, I saved your life, and - “

“Kid, here’s a tip - don’t f- urrrp - don’t screw up your back trying to suck your - your own - stop bragging, it’s not flattering,” Rick finishes lamely, reaching into his pocket and fishing out his wallet. “You’re about 20% right, as per f-frickin’ usual, Morty. If I were on the - urp - the run, we’d need to stay as cl-uuur-ose as possible, sure, but we’re not. All the law enforcement in this universe is - urp - comedically incompetent, Morty, cause it’s a kid’s world, get it? Remember the PG rating? It’s a bel-uuuooved kid’s show, Morty, the cops are just comic relief and n-ur-obody has a gun. Here.” Out of the wallet, he pulls a random assortment of bills and shoves them haphazardly into Morty’s unresisting hands. “Go play some video games or get - urp - get an ice cream. I gotta do this on my _own_ , Morty.”

Morty looks deeply uncertain. “I, I, I dunno, Rick, this all seems kind of shady - hey, you aren’t doing something dangerous, are you? Or, or meeting another hitman?”

“If you’re that scared, go w-uuur-ait in the car, Morty.” Rick pockets the wallet and raps on his device a few times, which beeps in response. “I don’t care what you do or even what you - urp - think _I’m_ doing, but you can’t come with me. Got it?”

Morty glances to the side, then out into the road. Sighs. “Got it,” he replies, somewhat pitifully.

If Rick notices, he clearly doesn't care - or at least, doesn’t care very much. “Good. Here, here’s the car keys,” he adds, tossing the keychain to his grandson, “if you need to hide or whatever, or if you’re gonna - urp - show off to girls, you’re gonna need those.”

“W-what about you, Rick?”

“I got the, the portal gun, Morty, I’ll be fine.”

Rick watches Morty go, and considers, not for the first time, turning around and running for the hills. He is aware, on a basic, instinctual level, that however the rest of the day goes, it’s not going to go _well_.

The tracker in his hand beeps slowly at him, accompanied by a crinkling sound typically associated with metal detectors. He stares down, and sighs, and steps slowly off the sidewalk and towards the dirt road fifty feet ahead.

~~

God, how old _is_ Beth? The absence of Morty’s inane chatter is freeing up space that Rick would rather not have clear in his brain. The past few decades had all slipped away far too quickly - God, he can’t remember. He can’t _remember_. In desperation, he furrows his brow, leans his head against a tree. Summer is seventeen which is the same age Beth was nine months before she was born but it’s not like Summer’s birthday was _yesterday_ so - fuck, just add a year - but what if it wasn’t? His head spins. He can’t remember - he can’t remember his own little girl’s _birthday_ , can’t remember what day it is, can’t think, can’t - reaches into his coat for his flask, slams back.

Above him, leaves rustle, and the world below him begins to spin at the pace it always does and he can breathe. Thirty-five. Beth is thirty-five. Five years before that, he was forty years old, he can remember, that’s when he got scared that he was dying and wasting his time on nothing, lost his shit for fear’s sake, ran. Before that - before that wasn’t here, it was just generally nowhere. The universe hadn’t followed the strict regulations and rules it was forced into now, and neither had they, which was what was going to make this…difficult.

Not fifty feet in front of him is a clearing, and an aptly named “Mystery Shack”, and - more damningly - a decidedly recognizable car. The building is falling apart, like a handmade dollhouse on stilts made by someone who was less of a carpenter and more of a well-meaning helping hand, which is more or less what Rick expected. The car looks brand fucking new, a deception transparent only to those looking through lenses of the past, and when he blinks he can almost see a young man, stocky and tall, leaning against it in a desperate attempt to look suave. Even from far away, he can make out the backseat through the window, he remembers - 

Jesus Christ, this is going to be hard in a Parental Guidance universe.

The wind carries a voice like chewed gravel over the shack and out towards Rick, and for every horror he’s ever seen in the multiverse _that’s_ what makes him go stark white. His knuckles grip the bark of the tree near him and he strains to understand the words - it sounds something like “I don’t pay…hurmph hurmph something…climb up in that tree or I swear on your frmph fthuh lumberjack call her,” which at least means there are other people around. Rick doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing - on the one hand, explaining this is going to be difficult, especially to strangers, but on the other, if there are witnesses, Rick is _marginally_ less likely to be murdered. It’s kind of a tough call.

~~

Morty, with a significant amount of hesitation, meanders through town, quietly cursing his grandfather under his breath. “He always does this,” he mutters, “stupid Rick, stupid dumb PG universe, stupid gross lame - ‘none of your business, Morty’, then why-why’d you even bring me, jerk?” He kicks a rock across the street.

Well, if he’s going to waste time, he’d rather waste it doing something fun, and doing something that Rick wouldn’t want him doing. He scans the various shops and buildings. Arcade - no, that’s something Rick would do - bar - nah, _definitely_ a Rick thing to do - there’s not that much here. A news building, a post office…a restaurant. He glances at the money Rick pressed into his hand not ten minutes ago, counts up his budget. It’s literally less than thirty dollars. He has no idea what Rick thought he could do with this.

Still, thirty dollars will buy cheap lunch, and lunch is something to do. With a heavy heart and an empty stomach, Morty enters the diner and seats himself despairingly at the counter. The menu only pulls off the wood with effort and an unpleasantly sticky noise, and ha almost nothing on it. A small yellow box in the corner proclaims that you can now get a plate of ketchup or a cup of ranch dressing as a side dish.

“Having trouble there?” Says a voice that doesn’t know whether it should be bored or amused, and Morty startles and looks for the source. A girl, about his age, sitting about two seats down, with flaming red hair and a lot of flannel. She’s actually super hot, in a butch, lumberjack-y way. He swallows hard and tries to smile.

“I - yeah, sorry, I-I-I can’t say I actually know what any of these are.”

“Ha! Not from around here, huh,” she replies, grinning, and moves to the next stool between them. “Where you from? What brings you to Gravity Falls?”

“Oh! Uh…road trip. With my Grandpa Rick,” Morty lies easily. It’s in the neighborhood of truth, anyway. “He went off to do some ‘personal business’, which I-I don’t really wanna know about, or-or what that is, so I figured I’d just, just h-hang out here for a while.”

“Cool. Sounds like fun,” she says, and grins. “I’m Wendy.”

“Oh! Uh, M-Morty.”

“Nice to meet you, Morty. How about I show you around town when you’re done with lunch?”

He grins. She grins back.

~~

Rick almost runs a good two or three times before he slams his drink hard and forces himself through it. He just has to talk to him - has to see him again - there’s a very good reason for it. He has to get something he left here. Maybe they’ll have a quick catchup session or something. He takes a _lot_ of deep breaths before taking the handle and twisting it.

It’s locked. He curses under his breath - not another obstacle in his way - and quickly retrieves a device he built for this exact situation. Advanced lock-picking device. Given that he can already pick locks with nothing but a hair pin and a paper clip, this isn’t actually a _necessary_ device, but the longer he takes, the more time he has to rethink his decision. Again.

But the familiar voice comes as soon as he cracks the door, and Rick freezes. “Sorry, bud, the Mystery Shack’s closed for the night,” it says, distractedly, “we’ll be open as soon as - “

Rick throws the door open and feels his stomach sink as the voice suddenly stops. They stare at each other, Rick at the door, the man at the counter. Silence yawns unpleasantly between them, cut only by softly howling wind and the whisper of unfaithfully falling leaves.

“Rick Sanchez,” the man says, finally, barely formed, barely above a whisper.

“Hey, Stan,” Rick replies, and he feels very tired and endlessly old all at once.

The silence lasts maybe five seconds longer. Then, Stan jumps the counter and decks Rick across the face. Stumbling, trying to catch his balance, Rick thinks, somewhat sarcastically, that he really should have seen that coming, and also that he deserved every sting from it. He feels the front of his shirt twist tight around Stan’s fist and is pulled forward into another oncoming punch. “Stan, I’m _sorry,_ ” he manages as soon as he can feel his mouth again.

“How can you even _think_ of coming back here,” he growls, “after what _you did_ \- don’t you even have the decency to be ashamed?” His fist rears back again.

As far as Rick is concerned, he deserves two punches with no repercussions, but once it goes to three, the fight’s on. “Hey! I _apologized_ , Stan, you know I nev-urrp-never do that,” he snaps, one hand grabbing uselessly at the huge fist at his neckline, “and I was watching out for number one! Sometimes things just don’t work out, okay?”

“No,” Stan snaps, “ _we_ were supposed to be looking out for number one, _together,_ and you _ran away_ after you had the nerve to call _me_ a coward.”

“So what? You _are_ a coward! We _both_ are!” It’s taking most of Rick’s muster not to start screaming in Stan’s face. He’s so close and so angry and so much _older_ than he remembered - of course, they both are. “You were _humiliated_ by me! Scared of what every-everyone else thought of us - you thought I was some b _uurrr_ ig mistake!”

“Yeah! I was a _stupid kid_ , Rick,” he snaps back, and Rick is suddenly aware that he hasn’t thrown the next punch yet, “you were the older one! You were older than me, a _lot_ older than me, of _course_ I was scared of what people would think!”

“Yeah, _fine,_ ” Rick says, trying to peel Stan’s finger’s off his shirt, “and I was - urp - scared of caring about you, okay?”

The grip loosens, and Rick stumbles back, flicks the creases out of his shirt, breathes hard. The place on his cheek where Stan’s punch landed is aching badly, and probably starting to swell. He’s definitely going to have a black eye in an hour, too. Thin fingers gingerly press into the bruises.

Stan is glaring at him, still, but the distance between the two of them has been partially restored, and his arms are crossed defensively across his chest. Rick, after a moment, shoves his hands in his pockets. There’s silence for several moments.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Stan says, finally.

Rick shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Yeah, well.” Beat. “Here I am.”

More silence. Stan sighs. “I’ll get you some ice for your face,” he says, exasperation in every syllable, “come on.”

~~

“What even - huuuurp - happened to us?” Rick says, a bag of frozen peas in one hand and an ice pack in the other. “Were - were we, we, we too young? Were we too old?”

“Both. Neither, I guess,” Stan says, opens a can of soda, “some relationships just don’t work out.”

Rick watches him with idle curiosity. It’s been more than thirty years, but Stan still looks - he aged like everyone else, a little rounder and softer, but when he moves his arms, even in his suit, Rick can see muscles moving and twisting. His shoulders are just as broad as always, hair soft and mopped carelessly, hands just as big and flat and rough as he remembers. Compared to Rick (who now looked like a bag of skin and bones left as disorganized as possible and wrinkled until everything had gone soft and blue), he had aged amazingly well. The only thing that’s really _changed_ is the nose, which has grown comically large and red over time. Well. Larg _er_ and redd _er_.

“I r-really wanted this one to,” he finds himself saying, “but I, but I had to go ffff- screw everything up again.” 

“Yeah,” Stan says, and looks at his feet, “you made me happy.”

For a second, Rick feels a flustered, rising heat blooming in his chest - then it’s crushed by the overwhelming surge of guilt, embarrassment, the hatred of his young self for ever _leaving_ this kid when he was young and sweet and trying his best. How could he have been _scared_ of this? He _needed_ this, not just when he was a stupid thirty-something studying particle physics and coked out of his mind, but now, when he was old, everything in between. But he’d thought he was in love with someone he knew was at the end of their road, and he’d been sure Stan was going to do something really stupid one day and get hurt or killed, and his base animal instincts had told him he was running out of time to reproduce - stupid, _stupid_ past self.

Love doesn't really exist - Rick knows exactly what chemicals flood the brain and compel humans to breed, and what triggers it, which is why he knows that feeling doesn’t really mean anything. But he could have gotten along with Stan for thirty years - their camaraderie would have carried them where sex and emotions and subjective squishy shit couldn’t cut it. That’s not just speculation - Rick’s met other versions of himself from timelines where he never left. They seem happier.

He lowers the bag of peas, blinks down at them. He knows his eye is black and sore, just as much as he knows this is a stupid idea, but he has to try anyway. “Why can’t we go back to the way things were?”

They’re already close, Rick sitting on the side of the armchair and Stan leaning against the wall, and one step brings them into proximity. Stan’s a good foot and a half broader than Rick, but Rick’s at least four inches taller, which he figures probably evens it out. Warm hands press against his shoulders.

~~

Which is when the door bangs open with the conversational chatter of young people, and the two old men jump away from each other a little too late. The chatter stops in surprise. “Rick?”

God dammit.

“Morty, what the fffff- Morty! What are you doing here? I literally paid you c-cash money to get as far away from me as possible! It’s been like an _hour_ , Morty. What are you even _doing_ here?”

Morty bristles visibly, and Rick grits his teeth. It’s always a pain when Morty thinks he’s big enough to fight back, these days. “You know, y-y-you’re really just sh-shifting the blame here, Rick,” he snaps, “y-y-you gave me like twenty-five dollars and told me to, to meet new people, and-and-and I did! I, I, I met Wendy - “

“Sup,” says the freakishly tall redhead, and Rick wonders, not for the first time, if kinks are hereditary.

“And, and, and she said, you know, ‘hey! Let’s go to this place I work, it’s never full of _old men_ trying t-t-to, to be just _gross_ or whatever!’” Morty slams his hands into fists at his sides. “And I said, I said that sounded great and, and cool, you know, just - just doing what Rick said and meeting new people! And, and, and now somehow this is _my_ fault!”

“Yeah, _Morty,_ be-because guess what? J-uurr-st because you wanted to get luh - lay - lay - urrp -lay’s chips w-urr-ith a girl - “

“Nice save, Rick.”

“Th - urp - thanks, Morty,” Rick says, and smiles for a brief second before remembering that he just got cockblocked by his dumbs grandson, and that there is official Hell To Pay. “Where wa-was I?”

Which is when the quiet voice from the stairs whispers “and I thought _our_ family had problems,” and Rick, properly paranoid to the end of time, swings around wildly, gun at arm’s length, trips over a poorly placed ottoman, and hits the ground, his weapon discharging harmlessly (to the kids. Which is what matters) into a lightbulb and spraying filament and broken glass over the shag carpet. There’s a beat of dead silence, and then from around the corner of the staircase, two heads encased in curly brown hair peer nervously into the living room. “Um, Grunkle Stan?” The same voice, but with the decency to be a little louder. “Who’s this?”

“Kids,” Stan yells, maybe somewhere between panic and anger and not sure where the proper place to settle is, “you two should go do Young People Things outside together! _Right now_ ,” he adds pointedly, “with Wendy and, um, yellow-shirt kid.”

Rick’s head feels like it’s imploding in slow motion and he reaches nervously for his flask. Somewhere near the TV, Morty is too busy sounding miffed to help him up. “I, I, I don’t want to hang out with them! Th-they’re, like, twelve!”

“Uh, we’re _going_ to be thirteen in, like, two weeks,” the unidentified boy says, somewhat curtly, and crosses his arms.

“Y-yeah, M-Morty, they’re gonna be thu-uuurr-teen,” Rick adds quickly, “just like you’re _gonna_ be in b-urr-ig trouble if you don’t get a move-on, _now._ ”

Morty takes the hint. Of the two children now on the stair landing, the boy looks concerned and unconvinced, but the girl - who Rick can only assume is his sister - gets the hint immediately, grabs him by the arm, and with a worried glance towards Stan, adds in an upbeat voice that she knows Loads of Young People Things that they can do outside, did you see that bug that was on the back porch, Dipper - and the cacophony of young voices dissipates away. There’s a long stretch of silence as Rick drinks slowly, trying to pull the world back into focus. Finally, because there’s nothing else in the air, he screws the top back on, pushes the flask back into his jacket pocket and moves to get up. The universe spins painfully around him. “So th-urp-those are your-your grandkids?”

A warm, strong hand makes its way into Rick’s, and another fits onto his rib cage like it was made to be there, and suddenly he is standing through no effort of his own and Jesus Christ he feels fifteen and lovestruck again - and Stan is right in front of him, dressed sharp and looking the same way he did forty years ago but overtoned in grays - but Stan lets go, and Rick tries not to shrivel as the past forty years rip through him like a stiff breeze. “Nah, my great-niece and nephew,” he says conversationally, somehow unaware of what his presence is doing to Rick. “They’re staying the summer while their parents - “

There are rapid-fire footsteps from elsewhere in the building, and at this point the door that connects the shop to the house slams open. “I heard a gunshot! Is everything all…right…”

Rick stares at Stanford. Stanford stares at Rick. Rick feels his hands shaking like a thin branch in a rough wind.

“Rick?” Stanford says, shocked. “Rick Sanchez?”

“Twins,” Rick says, because it’s the only thing he can think of to say. For the first time in nearly two and a half decades, Rick finds himself speechless. “Twins?”

If Rick were a better man, or even a good man, he might take the chance to explain the situation, or simply to work it out himself. If he were, at least, a protagonist, he might grin broadly and give a curt ‘guess that’s one more thing to cross off the old bucket list, huh? Ey!’ But Rick is neither of these things.

So instead, he vomits in his mouth, stares in silent horror, and runs.

~~

Rick makes it as far as the flying car before remembering two key pieces of information.

Morty is still back at the Mystery Shack.  
Morty has the keys.

He checks his coat pockets for his portal gun, but looking for a portal gun is pretty useless when you never brought it along in the first place - he’d left it behind to stop himself from chickening out - slams his fist into a nearby tree.

Stanley and Stanford were _different people_? Christ. What dumb fucking parent gave their twins two nearly identical names? He’d met Stanford somewhere along the road, figured he was a Stanley from a universe where his parents had the money to put him through college and the brains to give him a name like Stanford. And Rick had _missed_ Stan, and he’d been willing to settle for a discount alternate universe version. And it had been kind of thrilling to kiss Stan after a long conversation about the theory of time-travel from a mathematical standpoint.

But it wasn’t _Stanley_. It was…what, his brother? Neither of them had ever mentioned having a brother. Of course, neither of them had talked about their family very much at all. Rick puts his face in his hands and rubs his temples. He considers throwing up again, but dismisses the idea out of hand. He’s going to have to head back eventually, explain this whole mess as best he can. There’s really no way to lie his way out of this.

The gentle crunching of footfalls on discarded leaves and dry grass betrays the presence of another person - from the heavy, certain gait, Rick can tell it’s Stan _ley_. It might be easier - if only marginally - to have this conversation with him first. Stanley wasn’t the one who was going to hear “I was only fucking you because I thought you were your brother.”

He doesn’t pull his face out of his hands, even as the footsteps come to a halt near him, or as Stanley sits down cautiously beside him. There’s a pause. “So what’s going on now?” Stan says, “are we not talking to each other now? What’s the situation there?”

Rick sighs, drops his hands to his jacket and pulls out his flask. “Stan, you’ve got a more legitimate reason to hate me than most people,” he says flatly, drinks. “I’ve done some - urp - fucked up shit in my day, but this was - this was pretty bad. All things considered? I’m probably directly responsible for, like, 47% of your current problems. I mean, I can work out the exact percentage if I had some graph paper and a calculator, but it’s about 47%.”

“Why Ford?” It’s a tired, frustrated question, and Rick glances at Stan in confusion. “You could’ve had _anyone_ else and you chose Ford. What’s so special about him? Why does Ford get _whatever he wants_ all the time? Scholarships, respect, hero status, _you_ \- why him?” Just for a second, Stan’s voice cracks, and Rick is terrified he’s going to cry - but he plows on through it. “Why did _you_ choose him? Because he’s smarter than me? Braver than me? More handsome? More - “

“I thought he _was_ you,” Rick says, and rubs his forehead.

Silence. “You what?” Stan’s voice shakes, and Rick sighs.

“I spent a lot of my life just falling apart, Stanley. I peaked when I was with you and everything was downhill from there. Look, I, I had a wife I hated and a kid I could-uurp-n’t take care of, and-and-and I ran away from that too, and I found someone who I thought was, was a discount-universe version of you when I was hopping in the multiverse and it wasn’t good but i-i-it was good enough.”

Pause. “You _sure_ it wasn’t the other way around?”

“ _I don’t know,_ Stanley,” Rick snaps, voice boiling over, “does your brother strike you as the sort of person who’d will-urpp-willingly rob a, a, a fuckin’ bank with me and, and then fuck in the back of his _gorgeous_ car? Be-because he kind of strikes me as, as the kind of stick-up-the-ass dickbag who sits around and makes everyone play _space chess_ like a _million times_ a week.”

“Rick, you need to cool down on the swear words, this is a PG universe,” Stan says, and then grabs Rick by the shoulders and kisses him hard. His lips are hot and chapped and they taste kind of like Italian vinaigrette and Rick grabs him by the hair and kisses back. It’s sloppy and wet and there’s a lot of fumbling hands and tongues and teeth and skin, but neither of them have lost their touch and it’s like they’re flying on unforgotten memories.

They break apart, breathing heavily, and make sharp eye contact.

“We have to get out of Gravity Falls,” Stan says, “the PG rule ends at the city borders.”

“You’ve got a car, I’ve got a - urp - a spaceship made out of garbage I found in my garage,” Rick replies, breathless, “personally, I’d - urp - prefer the car. More space in the back.”

“What are we going to do about your grandson?”

“Leave him with Ford, he’ll be fine.” There was maybe a 35% chance that Morty would die. Solid odds for such a dumb kid. 

A thin, bony, fine-veined hand wrapped itself around a warm, rough palm, and fingers laced tightly together.


End file.
